Karkat3Dave: Hateful
by GreeneTea
Summary: Karkat's become all too aware of the way Dave made him feel, which is why the Troll is going out of his way to avoid the ironic douche. But, unfortunately, he can't hide forever. A friend wanted DaveKat Kismeisis and I did my best. Contains tentabulge, just FYI.


You've been cramped up on this meteor with that fucking nookstain for three of his pathetic human years.

**Three, goddamn, years.**

Three years of his stupid, freckled face. Three years of him constantly grating on your nerves with his little fucking jokes and quips that he thinks are funny and ironic. They're not, they're just fucking obnoxious. He _knows_ when he annoys the everliving fuck out of you, because he'll get that smug, shiteating grin that makes your insides coil in rage and absolute abhorrent disgust.

It wasn't even about Terezi anymore, it stopped being about her a while back. Now it was just hate, pure unadulterated hate, and you know that he knows it. He makes fun of your hatred, grabbing you in a headlock sometimes and going on and on about how you're probably getting turned on by it because of your quadrant.

He's not too far off really.

The role of Kismesis is a sexual one, but it's a much different kind of sexual than any of the other quadrants. It's unbridled, uncontrollable and often very violent. Most Trolls don't fill that quadrant this young, it's viewed as dangerous. A Trolls body at barely 8 sweeps old is usually changing and there are enough new and violent feelings pouring in without a target to act them out on.

But fuck. You hate Dave Strider. You hate him

so

fucking

much.

Just the thought of wiping that look off his face…Of watching those crimson eyes widen in shock, or better yet, fear, is enough to pull a sharp tug from your groin. You're fully aware of when your thoughts of hurting him stop being simple ones about fist fights and start being more complex and erotic. Your hands wrapping around his thin neck, tight enough to cause that pale skin to turn purple and blue. You'll drag your claws over it, pulling red lines from the cuts and then lap them up just to watch him squirm. You touch yourself to the idea of it sometimes, when you're alone. Your fingers dip into your soaking nook as your bulge wraps around your wrist and you bring yourself to climax thinking about all the pained sounds that cool-kid mouth could make for you.

You try to avoid him, try to keep the thoughts in check, but it seems like the more you try to drive it out of your mind, the harder it sticks. So, naturally, when you find him alone in one of the many rooms on this godforsaken chunk of shit you're all floating on, you quickly turn to get the fuck out of there before something happens.

"Hey Coolkat." he mutters, and fucking laughs. You clench your fists and try to will yourself to press the button to open the doors and walk out. Fuck you hate nicknames, even more when they're stupid on purpose and especially when they come from his fucking mouth. You press the button, albeit a little harder than necessary and wait for the door to open again. If he can just fucking avoid saying anything stupid for the next four fucking seconds you can leave and go back to your room and maybe-

"Jeez you're crabby lately. Heh, get it?" He adds with another fucking snicker. Something in you snaps then, and you spin around on your heel and march toward him. His expression doesn't really change, he just cocks an eyebrow up as you get closer. You stop in front of him, and with all the force you can muster, all the pent up rage you've been holding back, you slap him across the face.

His douchebag sunglasses fly off, skidding across the room, broken, you hope. He brings his face slowly back to meet yours, a red mark across his freckled cheek. His eyes are wide, and they're just as fucking delicious as you imagined. For a moment there's shock behind them, then it quickly turns to anger.

You almost moan when you feel his fist connect with the side of your face, but you hold it in. You go down easily, the taste of blood filling your mouth and within seconds he's on top of you. His fist connects with your face again, cracking your nose and causing blood to pour down your chin. His other hand is tangled in the neck of your sweater, gripping it and pulling you up into every punch.

You bring your own fist up and hit him as hard as you can in the eye. He makes a strangled yell and falls off you sideways, and in seconds you're behind him, your arm around his neck in a headlock and your other hand tugging his mass of blond hair. He screams, a primal, rage-filled noise and his teeth sink into your arm as his hands come up to find your horns. Fuck, he's grabbing them, scratching at them and it feels fucking amazing. You growl, the sharp pain from his teeth pulling at your skin through your sweater causing you to yank his hair harder. You realize for a second that you're grinding into him from behind, your bulge already completely free of your seedflap and pressing against the front of your jeans. He must've noticed, because his teeth release you and you hear him panting.

"Fucking…You're getting off on this aren't you? Is this part of your fucked up, angry buttsex quadrant? Is this your way of telling me you fucking like me?" He's laughing, they're short, breathy noises because of your arm around his throat, but you can still hear it. He's fucking laughing.

You yell, releasing him and shoving him so that he lands on the floor on his back. He's really cracking up now, a hand coming up to lightly touch his swelling eye. When he stops, the look he gives you can only be described as challenging. His smug grin is back and he thinks he's gotten the upper hand.

He's wrong.

You stalk forward, straddling him and moving to undo the front of his pants.

"What the fuck do you think you're-" He starts, but your hand flies up and grips his throat, cutting off the rest of his words. His hands reach out to claw at your arm, but you're beyond feeling it now. You look him in the eyes, growling in your throat and daring him to try and fucking stop you. He does, and it only makes you squeeze his neck harder. He coughs, or tries to, and you see his face begin to change colours. You loosen your grip a little, your other hand is working on the front of his jeans again, popping the button and ripping the zipper down. You reach into his boxers, and find his flaccid human dick. It's sort of disgusting looking, and not what you expected at all.

"I can't fucking believe you're my Kismesis. A human. Worthless, you don't even have a nook." You breathe through clenched teeth.

His hands are still gripping your arm, but he's not longer scratching. His eyes are darting from his dick to your face and you feel it twitch in your hand. He's starting to respond, you realize. You let a triumphant smirk settle on your face and you see him bite his bottom lip as he glares at you. You release his dick and your hand undoes your own pants quickly. Once free, your bluge uncurls itself and stretches forward, seeking contact with something to wrap around.

"What the everliving fuck is that thing!?" You hear him gasp, his voice cracking a little under the pressure of your hand wrapped around his throat. You laugh, leaning forward some so that your bulge can find his dick. It coils around it almost instantly, and you both moan at the contact. It begins sliding along the length of Dave's dick, the tip curling around the head of his penis and sliding under it to rub at a spot there.

"Shit dude…" Dave sighs, but it doesn't sound pissed off. That's not what you're here for. You tighten your grip on his neck and push his ridiculous knight pajamas up to rake your free hand across his abdomen. He screams, his head falling back as bright red lines pop up behind your claws. You lean forward instantly, your tongue coming out to lick slowly up each scratch. The taste is everything you imagined and more, and the sounds coming from Dave's mouth are just as perfect. You feel his hips buck against you as your bulge continues to massage his dick, coiling and uncoiling itself at a painfully slow pace for both of you. You move your own hips back as a response, causing your bulge to pull back a little and making you gasp.

He's gripping your shoulders now, forcing his hips to move against yours. His jaw is steeled but his eyes are fixed on your face. There's hate behind them, you can see it. He hates you for this, for making this feel good. You bite your lower lip, moving your hips faster to keep up with his pace and you see his gaze break as those red orbs flutter closed. He's moaning again, and his grip on your shoulders tighten, his fingers curled into your sweater. You feel a hand move up, into your hair and he pulls it. You groan, your bugle throbbing. You can feel your nook dripping, the red liquid running down your thighs. His hand finds your horn and he grips it, his nails digging into it. You moan and release his throat so that your lips can take the place of your hand on his neck. You bite, hearing a few of your fangs sink into the skin with a dull pop. He yells again, then gulps and you feel his muscles tense.

You're both grinding against each other now, each of your hips moving in a desperate rhythm, trying to find climax. You hear him whispering curses under his breath, one hand still gripping your horn while the other pulls at the shoulder of your sweater. He's close, you can feel it in his jerky motions and the way he's breathing quicker now. You feel his muscles tighten under your lips as you lap up the blood dripping down his neck. His hand's moved away from your horns, it's back to tugging at your hair, and you bring one of your hands up to return the favour. That's what sends him over the edge, your claws digging into his scalp, and you feel him come against you. His dick twitching between your bulge is what finishes you, and you bite into his neck again with a string of obscenities. Red floods the floor beneath the two of you and you sigh once the vision comes back into your eyes.

You lean back, and look up to meet his eyes. You're both panting, gasping for air, and neither of you speaks. There's only silence as he shoves you off him. He stands up, shakily, and tucks himself away. There's a white liquid all over his stomach, but he pulls his shirt down over it with a disgusted noise. You watch him stride across the room and grab his sunglasses off the floor. You're more than a little pissed off to see that they're still intact.

He ignores you as he walks to the door. He pushes the button and it opens, but he pauses before he walks out.

"Next time, don't touch my fucking shades." Is all he says before he's gone. You're still panting, but you feel more satisfied than you have in a long, long time.


End file.
